


Logical Seduction

by shirleyholmes



Series: Writing Exercises [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack, Cuddling, Deconstruction, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Hilarity, Humor, Irony, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Tropes, slightly meta, sort of, total crack really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a bed. </p><p>Just one bed.</p><p>In this entire fucking hotel.</p><p>This is what passes for rational in John Watson's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Logical Seduction

**Author's Note:**

> *This is purely cracky and slightly meta in that I'm poking good-natured fun at a lot of the tropes that I dearly love, in both fan fic and the show. I just needed SOMETHING to get me writing again, and then this popped out, so it's best to not think too much about it, really. Also, Mary doesn't exist yet-- I'm assuming this is around 'Hound' time, if it really has a time.

“We’ve only got the one bed, sir,” the man behind the counter said. 

John glowered. Sherlock, the great git, didn’t so much as look up from his phone. They’d arrived in Brighton 30 minutes prior, about 2 hours after they’d gotten a call about a locked room murder that promised to be ‘so interesting, at least an 8, John’ and all John really would have liked, at this ungodly hour of 6 freaking am, was a shower and a cup of coffee. And also, possibly, a bludgeon, though whether it was to be aimed at his twat of a flatmate, the infuriating hotel clerk or his own head was currently up for negotiation. 

“No, can’t find anything else at all,” the hotel clerk said. 

Definitely the clerk, then. John suspected that he wasn’t really looking at all and no doubt Sherlock could have told him, if he’d so much as deigned to look up from his Iphone. His majesty didn’t deign, of course. Basic human necessities such as sleep and food were beneath his notice, particularly when John was around to take care of such _trivialities_.

“Well, we reserved two,” John said, tapping a finger impatiently on the desk. “One room, two single beds. I did that-- not that great git there, me, and you will damn well give me the beds I reserved or--” Or what, he wasn’t certain. But it wasn’t going to be pretty either. 

The man shrugged, unrepentant. “Don’t recall your name,” he said. “Watson, is it? Well. Watson. Only got the one.”

John hunched his shoulders and glared. “Do this a lot then? Lose reservations within a few hours?”

“Just the one.”

“Yes, thank you, I think I got that--”

“John, we’re wasting valuable time.” The tall, black-coated creature at John’s side voiced its opinion for the first time and, true to form, it was entirely unhelpful. 

In lieu of a better outlet, John rounded on him. “No,” he said, pushing a finger into Sherlock’s chest. “This is important. That body has been there for at least a day, it can wait another four minutes while--”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded. “What could possibly be so important about a bed, John?”

“We’re not going to fucking sleep in the same bed, Sherlock, that’s just not on.”

“Plebeian,” Sherlock scoffed.

“No, you don’t get to do that, you don’t get to fucking decide for both of us what is ‘plebeian’ when you can’t even be bothered to pick up the phone and make a bloody reservation your--”

“Sir,” the man behind the counter interrupted. “Did you or did you not want the room?”

“Yes, of course we want the room,” Sherlock said, sweeping past and snatching the keys before John could do more than sputter indignantly. “Come along, John,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the stairs. “We have a case.”

“You and your boyfriend are on the fifth floor,” the man added helpfully. “Better catch up.”

It was a mark of exactly how fed up John was that he didn’t even bother contesting the assumption. 

Or at least, that’s what he was telling himself. 

\---

“There really is only one.”

“He had a bright blue tattoo on his left arm--”

“And it’s a fucking _single_ \--”

“Clearly from the Shanghai region of China--”

“A _single_ , Sherlock.”

“Well, time to be going. Come along, John.”

“Will you LISTEN to me for one bloody second?”

“Aha, of course! Timing, John, that’s the key here, TIMING--”

“You're an useless twat, you know that?”

Sherlock headed for the door, his great coat flouncing dramatically behind him and John groaned. To his intense surprise, Sherlock popped his head back in and looked at the bed for the first time. Then at John. Then back at the bed.

“If we manage to build up enough adrenaline, it shouldn’t be an issue anyways,” he said cryptically and with that, he was gone.

\----

The issue of the bed remained unresolved until nightfall, when they stumbled back in, drenched and exhausted, because of course it was flipping cold and of course the manic sister would think that jumping into the sea was a logical way to evade an entire force of policemen and of course, Sherlock would take it on himself to follow the lady in. Entire force of policemen notwithstanding. And then, of course, John had to follow him. 

This was what passed for rational in their life. 

By the time John managed to shut the door, Sherlock had stripped off his sodding coat and was hard at work on his buttons. His shirt, which normally made it a priority to plaster itself to his skin, was bordering on obscene when wet. Well, it was bordering on obscene even when dry, if John was being honest with himself, but this was _particularly_ indecent. 

“Bathroom,” he said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm just as he managed to wriggle it out of one sleeve. Sherlock shrugged him off.

“Don’t be absurd. And take off your clothes, John.”

Well, that was uncomfortable. Shouldn’t have been. Was. 

“I’ll manage, thanks,” John said, crossing his arms over his dripping shirt. Sherlock snorted and threw his own shirt in the corner as well. 

“No,” John said, as Sherlock started in on his belt. 

“Plebeian,” Sherlock said, yet again. He seemed to have grown strangely fond of the word. 

"Here." Sherlock pointed at the bathroom door. “Go first. You’ll catch a cold.”

Which was so strangely considerate of him, that John was immediately suspicious. But he was also shivering by now and Sherlock was being just a little too efficient with that belt--

“Alright,” he said, grabbing a clean pair of clothes from his open bag. “And don’t you dare go anywhere until I get back, you’re taking one too.”

“Where on earth would I go John?” Sherlock purred. 

And really, that was the limit.

\----

It was about an hour later that Sherlock himself emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy towel and, if John was making bets (which he wasn’t), not much else underneath. 

“You’re obsessing over the bed again, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked. He shook his head, spraying water droplets all over the carpet.

“No,” John lied. 

“You’re standing in the middle of the room in your night clothes, looking at it as if it’s about to bite you. Which I assure you is highly unlikely, considering that it’s an inanimate object--”

“You’re not planning on sleeping, are you?” John said.

“Of course I’m planning on sleeping.” Sherlock settled himself comfortably on the edge of the mattress and reached for his suitcase. “We have a bed.”

“ _A_ bed.”

“Glad to see you’re keeping up.” 

“Or,” John said hopefully, “I could sleep on the floor.”

“Hardly. Your shoulder wouldn’t allow it. And besides, we’re hardly going to be in a situation where the inn doesn’t have so much as an extra couch again. In fact, I’m nearly certain that that never happens.”

“Right- Hang on. How did that happen anyways?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Couldn’t say. But they were very clear on that point. There is only one room and there is only one bed and the logical conclusion is that we both ought to share it. Did you bring condoms?”

“Condoms? CONDOMS? Planning on seducing the hotel clerk in here too, are you?”

“Do stop gaping, it’s entirely unattractive. Don’t make me reconsider this.”

John marched over and glared down at Sherlock. “Reconsider what, exactly?”

“Pleb--”

“Shut up. No, I take that back. Explain yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began explaining, as if to a severely slow toddler. 

“If we do get in bed together, John, we will presumably be having sexual relations.” He paused significantly. “Sexual relations would involve condoms. And possibly lube, unless we can find some likely-sounding substitute. Conditioner, perhaps." 

“ _Sexual relations…_ ”

“Are you really just going to repeat everything I say with emphasis? That could get tiresome very quickly.”

John forced himself to take a deep breath before stepping just a bit closer. 

“No, sorry, how do you figure?”

Sherlock looked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. And masses of pale exposed skin, but best not to think about that. 

No. 

“Your tiny brain wouldn’t understand the intricate thought processes behind that leap,” Sherlock said, reaching for his towel. 

“HOLD IT,” John said. Sherlock finished unwrapping his towel anyways, revealing (thankfully) a pair of black silk pants.

“I always sleep naked,” he explained, as if this should be obvious. “And furthermore, we really are in quite the situation. I imagine we’re expected to have sex at this point.”

“And who the bloody hell expects this?”

“Well, we are sharing a bed. A single bed. In the middle of nowhere. There is nothing we have to do in the morning and so it would be a rather wasted opportunity--”

“You don’t even have sex.” John reconsidered. “Wait, do you? Are you gay? Do I want to know?”

“As to the last, considering your repressed feelings towards me, probably not.” Sherlock flopped backwards and looked at him through a mass of fringe. “But I am probably gay. Or rather, I am not quite straight and that is close enough. So much, so obvious. I have been dropping copious hints to the fact for the last year and a half. As to the first part of that question-- no, I do not. Or, rather, have not.”

“And you can’t keep it in your pants for one more night?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I assure you that my libido, which has remained dormant for 32 years, will not be able to restrain itself if pushed into such close proximity with you.”

That was… almost flattering. 

“That could be a problem, you know,” John said, tucking his hands behind his back. 

“Because you’re not gay?” Sherlock said. “Clearly, that is a fiction concocted by your diminutive brain to fool yourself into believing you are not in love with me. I doubt it will hold up under inspection.”

“No,” John said. “No, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. That is--”

“That I’m the exception? I’m always the exception.”

John shifted his feet uneasily. “Well, of course I’m attracted to you. You’re fucking beautiful, you know?”

“I’m really not.”

“No, alright. You’re a bit funny looking. But I seem to have convinced myself you’re gorgeous, what with the cheekbones and the lips and-- where was I?”

“Saying your piece on why this wouldn’t possibly work, I believe.” Sherlock checked his watch. “I believe you have about one minute before it starts to get boring.”

“Hang on, will you?” John said. “I don’t know if my brain’s processing this- thing--entirely rationally at the moment.” 

Understatement, considering the naked-detective-in-his-bed situation that was currently unfolding, but it was the best John could do under the circumstances. 

“And you are,” John continued. “You know. Attractive. In your funny-looking way. Maybe it's the voice. Or the way you move- Actually, I don't know, I'm just hypothesizing here. It's a bit confusing.”

“Really John, that’s hardly the way to seduce someone,” Sherlock said. “One would think that a man of your sexual experience would realize that being unflattering about my looks was not the way to convince me into bed. I thought there was an unspoken agreement where we agreed that I was too beautiful to exist. Or was that just my fangirls?”

“No, frankly, I think it’s a bit more widespread than-” 

Sherlock eyed his pants speculatively.

“Oh Christ, that wasn’t a euphemism! Or a suggestion,” John said. “And I wasn’t seducing you into bed. I mean, I’m not gay. Besides, you’re already in my bed and you don’t seem inclined to move, so that ship has probably sailed.”

“Figuratively or literally?” Sherlock asked, looking up from his pants for a moment. 

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” John said. 

“Just an unfortunate choice of words then. Do continue.”

“Unfortunate-- oh never mind. Continue what?”

“You were having your sexual-identity crisis now, before I rudely interrupted. Again.” 

“No,” John said. “Don’t think I was, actually.”

“Really? Because I’d come up with 12 different scenarios and 75% of them involved you have a sexuality crisis.”

“And the rest ended with me ravishing you, is that it?”

“No, they all ended like that.”

Didn't it always. If John was being honest, it wasn't as if he'd really never seen this coming. Nor as if… he wasn't more than a bit willing to go along with it. Now that they were here, that is. With the bed. And Sherlock. And all of that. It was like the universe was trying to tell them something, he reasoned. Wouldn't do to ignore the universe, really, that seemed to be asking for all sorts of trouble.

“Seems I don’t have much of a choice then,” John said. “Being the experienced one in this relationship and all.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s an assumption.”

“Is it though?”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock said. 

“You just told me you’re gay. And she definitely is, so--”

“Irrelevant. Sexuality has always been...Irrelevant.”

“I’m starting to get that, yeah. Is that a universal wisdom thing or just a this part of England thing?” 

“Couldn’t tell you. But it is convenient.”

“For some of us.”

Sherlock turned his back and gave him a long-suffering look over his shoulder. “You can have your sexuality crisis there,” he said, pointing to the corner. “And when you are ready, you can join me on the bed.”

“No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just fucking delegate me to the corner like a disobedient child Sherlock--”

“Well, you’ve passed the point of being boring. So if you don’t want to have your crisis, we should just skip to having sex now. Preferably kinky sex. Or,” he grimaced, “Sweet, tender sex. But some sort of sex.” 

John shuffled over to the bed and considered. “Budge over.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” John said, aggrieved. “There’s no other fucking place to sleep, is what, and now you’re pouting at me. I’m not going to be able to do anything if you’re pouting at me.”

“I’m not pouting,” Sherlock said.

“Right, sure. You’re always pouting. I’m pretty sure it’s your default condition.” 

“Don’t say it’s cute, John. It really isn’t.”

“It’s a bit cute,” John admitted. “You acting like you’re five. Mostly obnoxious. But a bit cute.” He laid a hesitant hand on Sherlock’s exposed ribs. 

“That better not be a kink,” Sherlock said. “I won’t call you ‘daddy’.” He reconsidered. “Unless you really would like me to.” 

“No. God no.” John trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s bare body and Sherlock stilled completely. 

“Alright,” John said, hooking a thumb into the black pants. Christ, his skin was so damned soft. “Alright. We can do this.”

Sherlock peered at him. “That was easier than expected.”

“Um. Yeah. Don’t know why, actually.”

“It’s all for the best,” Sherlock said. “Now we can just skip to the good part and avoid all the tedious drivel in between.”

“Hmph.” John leaned down and nuzzled into the back of Sherlock’s neck. “There is just one problem, though.”

“Your girlfriends don’t count as problems, John.”

“No, that's true enough.”

“Then what could possibly--”

“I don't usually randomly pack condoms.”

"But you did, this time."

"Yes. Fine. I did. Don't know why I thought I'd need it, but being prepared and all--Still, this bed isn't actually going to hold the two of us."

"There's always the floor."

"No, sorry, this is all only happening because of the bed, remember?"

Sherlock reached for him, drawing him down so that he could kiss him gently on the lips. Which was all right, really. A bit… perfect, in fact.

"By my calculations it will hold up for at least one night," Sherlock said, when they broke apart. "Any more objections?"

John smiled.

"Nope, no, I think that was it. I'm-- I'm out."

"So then we can stop prevaricating and--?"

"Oh god, yes." 

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm back! And I'll be getting to work on these WIPs soon, as well as some Season 3 things I need to address (Oh god, where to even start with that?!). But it's been a while since I've written and I need to get back into the swing of things. And S3 has given me a taste for the "oops, we're accidentally sharing a bed trope", because it's so delightfully fluffy and cute and I need that sometimes. But it's been done a lot, so I decided to have a bit of fun with it. And this show. 
> 
> Because I need a laugh really, really badly right now *cries and cuddles Sherlock*.
> 
> P.S. I love your comments and thoughts, forever and for always. Obviously.
> 
> Edit: Totally forgot to add the last few sentences the first time. That must have been confusing. Sorry!


End file.
